


Until the Days Bring Us Back Together

by kusunoki_fumiya



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Romance, Death, Drama, Dreams, F/F, Historical, M/M, Past Lives, Pliroy is one-sided and very brief
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 10:50:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10661037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kusunoki_fumiya/pseuds/kusunoki_fumiya
Summary: Yuri is a young figure skater who lives in St. Petersburg with his grandfather. His life is normal, until he meets the foreign stranger on the rink and from that very night can't stop dreaming about him, literally.But in his dreams he's no longer Yuri Plisetsky, but Yuuri Katsuki, a young Japanese soldier during World War II and the stranger is not the same either, but Viktor Nikiforov, a Russian volunteer in the refugee camps.Yuri knows that everything is just a dream, but why does his heart ache every time he dreams of those two strangers, and why does he feel so tied to their story?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Hasta que los días nos unan otra vez](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8948701) by [newyorkblues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/newyorkblues/pseuds/newyorkblues). 



Yuri

 

**Present Russia**

St. Petersburg was cold almost three quarters of the year.

Wrapped up from the neck down and hands in pockets, Yuri walked through the icy autumn blizzard to reach the Figure Skating Academy on Tupolevskaya Street in building 4. He'd walked the same way, alone, since he was 11 years old and his grandfather had decided that little Yurachka had to learn more about his city.

The city, despite the low climatic conditions, was always lively. Full of excited tourists who visited the old Winter Palace, sleepy young students going to their classes and even a good group of exhibitionists waiting for a little ray of sun to come out to remove their clothes and lean against the boiled cement walls to get warm.

Yuri liked St. Petersburg, but from time to time he found himself thinking of beautiful Moscow, the city that gave birth to him and watched him grow, but which he hadn’t visited for more than seven years.

“Hey! Banana head,” exclaimed a sharp voice behind Yuri. The boy jumped, just like every other time the woman caught him off guard.

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack, Mila? I know you'd like to see me dead, old witch, but don’t show up like that! Someday I'll hit you out of pure reflex and you'll see!” Yuri said with a hand to his chest making sure his heart was still there. Mila only reached out and ruffled his long blond hair.

"Again with that fantasy that you're not just a helpless kitten, Yura?"

"Go to hell, hag!"

Mila Babicheva, a beautiful 21-year-old Russian, was who’d taken the title of Yuri's best friend for three years. She had short, fire-colored hair, which looked lovely paired with her electric blue eyes. Both had attended the Academy since the boy had moved to the city, although they hadn’t been good friends at first; Until Professor Lilia had forced them to spend time together in a locked room for two hours until they stopped arguing (or until Yuri stopped insulting her). And the experiment had worked.

It had worked out more than okay.

“Hey, larva, I’m heading off to Lilia. Have fun with Yakov jumping like a bunny in a meadow.”

“Yeah, yeah, just leave already.” He said with a frown. Mila threw him a kiss and a wink, to which Yuri responded with an obscene gesture.

The training rink was quite small in comparison to the test rink or the great rinks of St. Petersburg, such as the one in the Ice Palace.

Yuri didn’t care. He just wanted to put on his skates and let himself go at once.  


As usual, Yakov was late. Scolding a student, chasing Lilia or doing god knows what. Yuri didn’t care about that either. Really, there were few things he cared for.

He went to the bench and took his skates out of his bag, his most precious jewel: they were white and impeccable, with a blade that glittered every time a beam of light struck against it. They had been a gift from dieduchka Nikolai, and for Yuri nothing was more important than a gift from the person he loved most in the world.

He was so caught up in his task that he shot up and didn’t realize that another boy also walked toward the bench at just that moment, whom he ended up head-butting.

“Can you watch it?!” The blond said with a shriek.

The boy winced as he rubbed his nose with a gloved hand. Yuri knew he was being unfair to the stranger, as he’d been the one to take the most damage, but being kind was not among his priorities.

"It won't happen again," he replied after a moment, in a low voice and a light foreign accent, but with excellent Russian.

“W-well, it better not!”

He was astonished at the stranger's cordiality. Anyone else in the Academy would have responded with an insult and Yuri would have been obliged to return it.

After a nod, the other boy sneaked off into the dressing room, where the skates were.

Where had that guy come from?

Yuri found him strangely familiar and became outraged after realizing that it was because of his undercut, the same hairstyle worn by the disgusting Jean Jacques Leroy; also called JJ, the Canadian exchange student who was Yuri's rival of almost two years. Even so, he couldn't help but think that it looked much better on this boy, accentuating his sharp Central Asian features (Yuri ventured to think he was Kazakh or maybe Uzbek) and his stoic face.

He decided not to dig deep into his thoughts and launched himself onto the rink.

On the ice, Yuri stopped being Yuri and became one with it. His soul worked with the ice and allowed him to move as he would through the corners of his mind.

He felt at peace.

Until, of course, Yakov arrived and scolded him for skating before class.

  


****

  


He didn't see the boy again, or Mila or any of his other classmates. Luckily, it had been another day without having to see JJ's hideous grin.

As it was late autumn, the sun began to set earlier and even though it was only 5 o'clock in the afternoon, Yuri returned home in the dark.

To an empty house, like every Thursday, when his grandfather went away for three days to visit Yuri's mother. He had already asked his grandson to accompany him, but he was still refusing.

But that grandfather wasn’t home didn’t mean that Yurachka was left helpless. The refrigerator was always overflowing with homemade food and sodas. Sometimes he also left him some junk food and chocolates. What could he say? He was still a spoiled child.

He poured some borsch, which his grandfather had apparently just left for his little boy, added a good amount of sour cream, and threw himself into television for a while. Silly box, as Nikolai liked to call it.

After feeding himself, bathing and wandering around the house like an unfortunate soul, Yuri decided to go to sleep earlier than normal.

Yes, his life was an explosion of fun.

But little did he imagine that everything would change once he laid his head on the pillow and entered the dream world.

  


****

  


Yuuri

****

**1940, Japan  
**

What he missed most was katsudon.

Well, of course he missed mom and dad, Mari, Minako, Yuuko and Takeshi and even their stubborn triplets. And Vicchan, too. But while he was serving as a special soldier of the Imperial Japanese Army they'd fed him some stew three days ago, and all he could think of was the delicious bowl of pork that his beloved mother Hiroko prepared for him.

At that moment he was at the stern of the Nagato Battleship, about to leave for the mainland; to the Korean peninsula where they sent novice campaigners, to be exact. The ship had sailed a few minutes ago, and all he could think of was his mother's watery eyes and the pride his father felt.

Yuuri didn’t like being there. And certainly not after the treaties in which his country had been involved; Like the one signed with the Third Reich and the Italian Republic.

It wasn't until a young man sat down next to him, staring at the horizon that he jerked out of his thoughts.

"It's very nice in spite of everything, is it not?" The boy asked. Yuuri was surprised by his physique; with his dark skin and sweet features from Southeast Asia, he couldn't help wondering how someone like him had ended up in the Nagato.

"I think only if you forget the role this ship actually plays." He answered with a shy smile and held out his hand. “Jotohei Katsuki Yuuri, it's a pleasure.”

“Ittohei Phichit Chulanont and the pleasure is mine.” He answered smiling and vigorously shaking his hand. Yuuri opened his mouth to speak, but Phichit stopped him. “I'm Thai by birth, but I've been here for several years.”

Yuuri was at a loss for words. It was no secret that the Japanese Empire was trying to conquer much of East Asia and also the south, so it made no sense for Phichit, a Thai, to fight for the people who probably planned to invade his country.

"I can see the doubt on your face." He laughed. “The truth is that I grew up with a Japanese family, since the situation in Thailand hasn't been very good for quite a while. Even now they are at war with France. But I like Japan a lot! The food is delicious and almost everyone is very cute, although I certainly can’t say that about the soldiers,” He said the latter as a whisper. “And the truth is that I just want this conflict to end at once. It's very sad to turn on the radio and hear about bombings, deaths and rapes. If we’re doing badly just imagine how they’re doing in Europe!”  


"And you think coming to war will make it end sooner?" Yuuri asked skeptically.

"Well, at least for me it could be over soon," said the Thai mockingly.

“Don’t say those things!”

"Come on, Yuuri-san, if we don’t joke about our own deaths then we're seriously screwed.”

Phichit paused for a minute, as did Yuuri. Had he not thought of it? Of course he had. Yuuri fantasized for many hours about what his death would be like: in an explosion, with a bunch of bullets piercing his body, tortured as a prisoner of war. Maybe even on that same ship, torpedoed by the Chinese. He didn’t know. And he didn’t want to know either. Yuuri just wished that if it happened (and it was very likely to happen) it would be fast.

  


****

  


Days passed and the battleship docked at Wŏnsan, from where the imperial troops descended and traveled throughout the city, marching and frightening the locals in their wake.

Yuuri preferred to get lost in the center, behind the flag of war, to see if it could hide him from all that commotion. Phichit was at his side, with the most serious expression Yuuri had seen on him since he'd met him on the Nagato stern four days ago.

Wŏnsan was awful. Not for lack of architectural beauty, but for its inhabitants. They had all grown so low-spirited and fearful that they seemed out of place.

The Imperial Detention Center was on the outskirts. The commander informed them that their task was to supervise some revolutionary prisoners.

Since 1919 the riots had begun in what was the capital of the peninsula, Seoul, and had spread throughout the whole territory.

Yuuri and Phichit’s group was relieved to a pavilion where the less dangerous inmates were. The young corporal felt a little discouraged to be seen as part of the least competent of the imperial guard.

"Bring in the leader." The leader of Yuuri's squad ordered, a boy who looked more like a dangerous closet than a human. His official title was Heicho.  
"It's the one in the corner," said the jailer. “Hey, you, come here!” He shouted. The boy didn't so much as blink at his answer. "Come now, you rebellious rat!" He screamed at the poor Korean.

The boy raised his eyes and scanned the squadron, past Yuuri, and ending at Phichit, whom he dedicated a couple of more seconds.

He was filthy, his jet-black hair ruffled and his eyebrows thick. He got up parsimoniously and went to the door of the cell, where they let him out before closing it.

Before Yuuri realized, the jailer took the rebel leader by surprise and struck him with his gun on his temple. The boy collapsed on the ground, gritted his teeth, but his hard gaze didn't waver.

Some of the squadron laughed. Yuuri watched their faces to remind himself who to avoid.

"Identify yourself, rat," hissed the older corporal in Japanese. "Or do you think you're too special for that? Oh, maybe you don't understand me when I speak? Then you'll get used to it because I won't dirty my language with that barbarian language of yours.  


"Sir ..." The jailer intervened. "He's kind of hard to gnaw."  


"Never mind, I've dealt with the worst savages in China." He boasted, elbowing and laughing with the second-in-command. "Would you give me the honor of telling me what he's called? Maybe we'll find something out about his personal life.

It was a subtle and almost imperceptible movement, but Yuuri watched as the rebel looked quickly and nervously at the soldier, who noticed the gesture and smiled.

“Name? Before I take him to the chamber of screams, oh, sorry, the interrogation room.  


"Of course, this rat's name is Seung-Gil Lee, and he comes from Pyeongchang.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you see any mistakes or typos feel free to point them out.


	2. Chapter 2

Yuri

**Present Russia**

Two hours later and he still couldn’t fall asleep again. But it wasn’t insomnia or lack of fatigue, not this time. 

He couldn’t sleep because he couldn’t stand the blood. Or the screams. 

Yuri Plisetsky had had the weirdest dream in all of his 17 years. Not only had he dreamt that he was a _Japanese soldier_ from more than half a century ago (A soldier that looked like a pig, unbelievable) but he’d also dreamt the heat of a tortured confession. 

Yuri had never been bothered by gore or bloody things. In fact, he very much liked movies where someone had their head ripped off or their bowels twisted. 

But that dream... 

It wasn’t anything he’d ever lived. He could still smell the rebel’s, Seung-Gil Lee’s blood. He could remember exactly what his fingers looked like after having his nails ripped off and the moment his impenetrable gaze had caved with terror printed into his memory. A terror that only increased every time he refused to talk. 

Even then he’d said nothing. 

Although if it’d been just that, Yuri could’ve said it was a nightmare. But the sound of the waves on board the Nagato, Phichit’s smile, the marine breeze, Hiroko’s last hug… 

It was strange. It was creepy. Yuri could almost feel in his tongue the words perfectly pronounced in Japanese, when he knew nothing besides _arigato_ or _sushi_! 

He remembered what it felt to be the soldier Katsuki, the dimensions of his (own) body, the tone of his voice, his thoughts. The pain. The loneliness. The anxiety of going to war. 

What could it mean? If grandpa was home he’d probably say he’d seen too many old movies. 

He tried with all his strength to forget and go back to sleep. He managed neither, and when his alarm rang, he put his coat on and left for the Academy.  


****

  


Many may marvel about Yuri Plisetsky and his education. Truth is, he’d been homeschooled by his grandfather so that he could devote himself to his dream of ice skating. But he still didn’t compete professionally like Mila, or the hateful Leroy. 

He liked being in the shadows and enjoying the ice and its solitude.

Yuri had never fit into schools, either because he was too antisocial or too aggressive. The teachers looked at him suspiciously, and the children would tease him about looking like a girl until he knocked out at least one tooth or made their noses bleed.

Grandfather never thought ill of Yuri. He simply realized that his grandson wasn’t a person who knew how to handle social situations. In time he would learn, he’d told him once. 

“Good morning, Plisetsky! The truth is I was starting to wonder where you’d gone this week and if it was true you didn’t want to spend time with the king…”

_Why me?_

Yuri turned on his feet and found the most nauseating being that the Earth had had the misfortune of producing.

Jean-Jacques Leroy.

His life was too unfair. Couldn’t he just go back to Canada already? On top of that, JJ acted like Yuri was actually interested in being his friend.

“I’d been asking myself if I was really lucky enough that you’d maybe been eaten by a bear, but now I see not.”

“Come on Yurachka, don’t be like that. Let’s train together today after lunch! It’ll do you good to practice with someone as agile as me!” He exclaimed in a tone too high for his taste, daring to run an arm around the Russian's shoulders.

“Three things I’ll tell you, Leroy,” Yuri said as he raised three fingers and took JJ's arm off. “One, don’t call me that because only people that I like call me Yurachka and you aren’t part of that group. Two, the only way I’ll practice with you is if I can stick my skate in your face. Three, would you do me the favor of using less perfume? You’re intoxicating me with your cheap cologne. And four, don’t ever touch me!”

“Hey, you said four things, not three-” He began until Yuri stopped him.

“For the love of God, just leave me alone already!” He cried out. JJ didn’t wipe his grin off, something that infuriated the Russian. 

“Before I go, _Yura_. Have you seen Otabek? He got here a few days ago and he’s already ignoring me. The poor guy probably thinks he’s not worthy of hanging out with the king! Ah, my good friend Otabek.” He said with a dreamy sigh.

“Do I look like someone who socializes with bastards that get along with you? And who the fuck is this Otabek?” He responded aggressively just as Professor Lilia entered the classroom.

“Yuri Plisetsky, you know the rules.”

“Yeah, Yuri. No cussing!” JJ said as if scolding him.

Yuri clicked his tongue loudly and decided to ignore the asshole like he always did, or things wouldn’t end well that morning.

But just because he’d ignore him didn’t mean Leroy would keep his hateful comments to himself, of course.

The ballet lesson ended up being torture just as every other encounter with that trashy Canadian. 

 

Lunchtime could either be wonderful or a complete mess for Yuri. That day it was the latter.

Mila had invited some friends of her, the Italian Crispino twins, and a Czech named Nekola. And like the fly he was, Leroy had decided to join his "good friends." Friday didn’t look so good anymore.

"Emil! I don’t think you should be venting your erotic dreams to my sister! Do you want me to hit you? " Said an enraged Michele, the eldest of the Crispino siblings.

“Hey, Mickey, don’t be like that. It was just a dream and it wasn’t even erotic, we were just having a date in the dream.” The one called Emil defended himself, the Czech, Yuri realized. 

“Well, it sounds erotic to me!”

“Mickey, enough,” Sara stopped him, she looked really pretty with her hair up. Yuri caught Mila looking at her from the corner of her eye. “You can’t make so much drama out of nothing. Dreams are fun!”

 _'Yeah, right'_ thought Yuri. He kept chewing his homemade pirozhki, while Sara continued to chatter.

“Last night I dreamed that I went on vacation to a place that was Thailand, but it wasn’t really Thailand it looked more like Korea or something like that. But in my mind I felt it was Thailand.”

Yuri swallowed thickly. It’s just a coincidence, he told himself.

His mind was filled with memories of the night before: the Thai soldier Phichit and also the tortured Korean rebel. No one noticed his discomfort.

“I dreamt that I punched Yakov! Man, it was awesome.” Mila laughed and the rest joined in. Even Michele softened his frown.

“Mickey probably dreams that he keeps his sister in a crystal box.” Emil joked. Sara laughed softly.

“Look, Nekola, don’t tempt-” He began.

“I, Jean-Jaques Leroy, the king, dreamt that he returned to his beautiful native Canada, where they awaited me with a scepter and a throne! And of course a beautiful woman.”

“Sexist pig.” Mila mumbled under her breath to Sara.

“What about you, Yurachka?” 

“Excuse me, bastard?” He answered. JJ raised an eyebrow. 

“We would like to know what you dreamt of.”

“That I cut your tongue out.”

“I’m serious!”

“So am I.”

JJ was about to reply but Sara cut him off.

“They say that dreams are repressed desires of the unconscious.”

“What?! Emil!” Michele cried out grabbing the boy by the neck.

"They also say that they’re sometimes premonitions of the future," JJ said proudly. Yuri rolled his eyes.

“Or memories of past lives.” Mila said, and Yuri’s heart sank in his chest like a rock.

“I have to go.” He said taking his things and disappearing before everyone’s astonished eyes.  


****  


Since there was still half an hour of lunch left, Yuri wanted to spend it skating. At least Yakov couldn’t scold him for getting tired before class because he had no more skating lessons that day.

He went to his locker to get his mouth guard (since the track was smaller, he was more prone to blows or falls) and when he opened it there was a surprise.

There was a picture of him. Or rather, his eyes. He could barely see a bit of his blond bangs, but almost the whole of the page was covered by a beautiful drawing of his eyes in pastels. Yuri didn’t think that his real eyes could do that work of art justice.

But it wasn’t signed. A bit of desperation entered him, until he found a small handwriting, with a well-drawn Cyrillic:

_I liked your gaze. It looks like the gaze of a soldier who survived war._

His heart flipped. Who had written such a thing and had given him such a precious drawing?

He was sure it wasn’t anyone he knew closely. As far as he knew none of the Crispinos, nor did Nekola draw. Mila was talented, but he doubted it was to that extent; Besides she wouldn’t go through the trouble of orchestrating something like this to give him the drawing. And not to mention Leroy, who probably only knew how to make crowns.

Could it be ...?

The foreigner. The Kazakh. Uzbek. Whatever.

And what did he mean by the gaze of a soldier?

 _Jotohei Katsuki_ , he thought. It raised the hairs all over his body and left him stunned for the rest of the day.  


  
****  


Yuuri

**1940, Japan**

He’d vomited all his breakfast, lunch and perhaps part of his stomach. That interrogation had been more than he could bear. The Korean boy's hand was unrecognizable from so much blood that was dripping. His face was furrowed with sweat and wrinkles, but his iron will was unshakable. The jailer kicked him back into his cell.

Phichit had cried. They had been the only two in the squadron to show weakness, so the Corporal had decided to punish them.

Ten lashes. Yuuri thought he could bear it. He was weak after all. This is a war, he reminded himself. You will achieve nothing by being a weeping wuss, perhaps even deserving to die on the battlefield.

"Yuuri-kun?" Phichit spoke to him. He looked more stable than he’d had been a while ago. “We'll be fine. I ... At least we're free, not like him.

Yuuri smiled bitterly.

Free. What a beautiful irony.  


****  


He was ordered to take his shirt off. His companions laughed when they saw his stomach a bit flabby, but Yuuri didn’t care.

Phichit was in the same state. He gave him an encouraging smile, despite having his lips tremble.

“Soldiers! In the name of the Imperial Japan, Jotohei Katsuki-san and Ittohei Chulanont-san are given the punishment of ten lashes each for showing weakness before the enemy. By royal decree, anyone who can’t maintain his composure may be tempted to have compassion on his enemies. Anything to say in your defense?” Said the second in command, a guy Yuuri’s age named Daisuke, who’d he had gone to elementary school with.

“No, sir.” The accused responded in unison.

“Very well, then. Ten lashes each. You can decide who’ll go first. One will lash the other.” 

“NO!” Cried Phichit. Yuuri’s face drained of color.

“Excuse me, Chulanont-san? Are you, a Thai immigrant, opposing the laws of our honorable Imperial Guard?

Yuuri watched Phichit, his eyes shining. He returned the gaze. Yuuri gave a tiny nod.

_We’ll be fine._

“No, sir.”

The corporal Daisuke looked at him with abhorrence and handed him the whip. Yuuri positioned himself against the tree.

_We’ll be fine._

It came down. It tore through his skin. Phichit did it with least force possible and very quickly, so Yuuri wouldn’t have to suffer too much.

We’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.

He told himself until the eight lash, he lost consciousness.  


****  


Yuri

**Present, Russia**

No.

No.

He’d risen so suddenly that he'd struck his head against the shelf on the wall, knocking down a few books, ornaments, and recognitions.

His heart beat wildly. His back tingled. He could feel it.

He had felt it.

He’d dreamt with Yuuri Katsuki again. And he’d suffered the pain of the lashes as if they’d been done to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sara: You can’t make so much drama out of nothing  
> Michele: Fucking watch me


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a while. If you're still following this, thank you!

Otabek

**Present Russia**

There was nothing Otabek liked more than the sea.

Almaty, in his native Kazakhstan, had no sea. In fact, the vast majority of Kazakhstan had no sea. Otabek had left school and since he was 16 years old had traveled Eurasia, and a bit of Africa in search of all possible seas.

He had visited the beautiful Greek islands, the icy waters of the North Sea, the black sands of Iceland, the French Riviera, had floated on the Dead Sea, drawn the sunset over the Mediterranean. All with a rucksack and a motorcycle permit.

But certainly St. Petersburg had the most precious sea. The Baltic Sea was a hidden gem in the world and Otabek loved that the city gathered two things he loved: ice and sea.

 _A contradiction_ , he said to himself. _You like things that aren’t compatible, Otabek._

An image came to his mind. An image of someone that at plain sight anyone would say was the opposite of Otabek.

Yuri Plisetsky. His latest muse.

He didn’t know if it was his golden hair like the rays that lit Barcelona or his eyes the color of the Aegean, but Otabek couldn’t stop observing him. He had so much grace, so much posture, and such elegance. It didn’t matter that his mouth was dirtier than a sewer, or that he gave everyone an icy glare. This boy had captivated Otabek at first sight.

He’d been in St. Petersburg a little over a week, and he’d already dared to sketch his eyes. Of course it didn’t do them justice. Yuri's true eyes oscillated between green and aquamarine depending on the light, and his nose had some almost imperceptible little freckles.

 _You've behaved like a brat._ He had spied the beautiful Russian in the distance and drawn him, and ended up leaving him a note as if he were fifteen years old. What was he thinking?

His phone rang. Otabek gave a small leap, still bot used to the sound. He just didn’t get calls. The only calls he ever got were from _him_.

Jean-Jacques Leroy.

He decided to ignore it. He couldn’t believe that this self-sacrificing social thought Otabek wanted to hang out with him. The phone's ring threw him off again but he ignored it. Until it rang again.

_“Otabek! I was starting to get worried. I gave you a few calls and like sixteen messages, maybe.”_ He said on the other side, before Otabek opened his mouth. _“I was wonder if you’d like to hang out with me and my friends. They’re all really cool and they love me very much! And of course they’d care for you too if you’re my friend. So, what about it, Beka?”_

“Don’t call me that,” Otabek asked, keeping his breath in. The nickname brought him too many memories. “And I didn’t feel like going out.” With you, he wanted to add.

_“Come on, do you feel like it now? And don’t call me Jean, man, we’ve known each other for two years already!”_

“Whatever.”

_“So?”_

“I still don’t feel like it.”

He hung up.

He’d known JJ Leroy since they’d crossed paths in france. Otabek’s first impression was that he was a pretentious megalomaniac chatterbox, and he hadn’t been wrong; but then Otabek had discovered JJ was good. He was kind, putting his arrogance aside. He honestly cared for others, although his personal desires sometimes ended up interfering. 

And JJ considered him his friend. Otabek, who did nothing but dedicate stoic stares and not return his calls when he didn’t feel like it. Sometimes he just needed to be alone.

It’s not like JJ was a good friend all the time, but he didn’t have anything better at the precise moment. It’d even been Jean who’d suggested he sign up in St. Petersburg’s Academy. He’d written an invitation to the country. He’d _paid_ for his enrollment, even though Otabek had tried to give it back dozens of times, since he’d announced it during last summer. With that small action he compensated a bit for his lack of tact in past occasions.

Otabek turned back to the ocean. It reminded him of his sister, Bibigul, who kept postcards of the ocean. Who’d affectionately named him Beka. Who’d died without feeling the marine breeze on their face. It didn’t hurt to think of her anymore, not so much anyways. But he did feel a dep nostalgia looking at the sea, like he could feel his sister’s voice calling from the bottom, over and over again:

_Come, Beka, let’s be together again._

  


* * * *

Monday morning was beautiful. Like everything in Russia, its landscapes, its architecture, its people, especially Yuri Plisetsky.  


He’d chanced upon him when he entered the music room, he was the only one there. The boy was doodling, or perhaps writing, in his notebook. He had bags under his eyes but his expression was bright. He had his hood up but his blond hair covering one of his eyes was noticeable.

Should Otabek talk to him?

He didn’t have to ask himself too long, since Yuri got ahead.

“Hey, you! Were you looking at me?”He said sullenly. He’d shut his notebook with a slam, startling the Kazakh.

“The world doesn’t revolve around you,” Otabek answered. The boy blinked. “I have classes here.”

“Well look for your seat and _leave me alone_.” Yuri hissed.

Otabek didn’t answer, he just let go of his bag and sat in a corner at the back, strategically near the door.

And very far from Yuri.

Class was fairly busy. Last week, Yuri had been late and had sneaked off to seat next to a red haired girl. He didn’t even look at Otabek and if he’d seen him, he hadn’t cared.

Otabek did and it was his first time seeing him.

“Your motorcycle’s cool.” He said suddenly. Otabek remained silent, but he was surprised.

“Hm?”

“I’ve seen a really cool motorcycle in the parking lot recently. None of the idiots here would be capable of getting something like that and given that you’re new…

“You guessed it’s mine.” Otabek finished.

“Yeah. Anyways, I still think you’re a freak but at least you’re a freak with good taste.

“Yeah, it’s mine.”

“Cool.” He said and then remained quiet.

It was half the truth. The motorcycle was rented, but he had a deal with the owner that if he could pay a good quantity of quotas until he paid the price, only and if Otabek could lend it for rent in case of emergencies, it would be his.

“Your sweatshirt’s interesting.” Otabek spoke suddenly. It was a black sweatshirt, with an embroidered white tiger.

“Huh? Seriously?” He said with a bright expression.

“Yeah, it represents you.”

Yuri blushed, but several pairs of students entered in droves, among them, the redhead friend of the Russian, and a pair of brunettes who sat next to her. Nobody said anything to Yuri for talking to the new pariah. No one had noticed Otabek, really.

For him, that was better.

  


* * * *

  
The job he’d gotten wasn’t bad. It was actually rather good: he didn’t have to deal with people, it was quiet, and the money they were paying him was good enough to survive.

Of course, Otabek had a good quantity deposited on his bank account that he’d inherited from his father, but he couldn’t let himself think it would last forever.

He worked at a postal office. Since he had the afternoon shift, it would be fairly calm. He didn’t even have to be on the counter; instead he was behind a computer tracking packages. He’d only ben working there for six days, but he already felt slightly comfortable.

Otabek fantasized some about what he would buy with his second or third salary; a new box of cakes, without a doubt. And some skates. He felt that if he continued using the community skates form the Academy his feet would fall off.

As the office was quiet, he pulled out his sketchbook. But he was not willing to draw Yuri.

He would draw someone he’d _met_ the same day as Yuri, so to speak. It was someone who had come from the depths of his mind, from his dreams. And like every night, he would draw a piece of it, to dream it again and learn a little more about its history, or both of their history. Otabek wasn’t sure what was happening, but he was certainly curious about it.

He was going to draw _Viktor_.

  


* * * *

  


Viktor

**1940, France-Switzerland border**

Viktor loved his job. Well, if one could call it that, since the compensation wasn’t in money.

At that moment a little girl with her faced dirtied and her hair disheveled ran to him and snuggled into his chest. Viktor returned the hug as if his life depended on it.

“ _Frère aîné_ ,” She said sweetly. “I’m so glad to see you again!”

“You know I love spending time with you all, little Adele. Have you seen _frère_ Chris around here?” Viktor asked sweetly in French despite his Russian accent, patting her hair. 

“Ah, yes. He’s helping Felicite with her braids. He’s very good at them!”

“How envious that he is so talented, right?”

“ _Frère aîné_ ,” She called. “Madame Marion says it will snow soon. Will you give us a show on the frozen lake?”

“Anything for my _sestrichka_.” He said, while the giggled through a blush.

Madame Marion and Monsieur Gaspard’s children camp was one of Viktor’s favorite places. It was filled with small children, smiling and foreign to the war. There were French, Swiss, Belgic, Spanish, Dutch, Italian and even German and Polish children. It amazed him that in between such destruction that was such a small place filled with life.

Viktor was a volunteer in different beneficiary organizations since he was twenty-one. He’d been along the whole expanse of the Soviet Union, his home. He couldn’t allow himself to call it his native country; when Viktor was born it was still the Russian Empire, years before the tragic revolution in February, that would end with the death of zar Nikolai II and the disappearance of the Romanov dynasty. And with it died many other things Viktor had no mind to list.

He was Russian. He hated taking his documents and reading the word Soviet on them. He hated the distrustful looks some people gave him. The German didn’t want him, the Italians were afraid of him and the Polish gazed at him with deep hatred mixed with a feeling of betrayal. 

Viktor only had one friend. The Swiss, Christophe Giacometti, neutral enough to like Viktor for who he was and not for his origins.

He stopped him from a distance. A group of French and Italian girls were lined up to get a fancy hairdo from Christophe. Viktor wasn’t sure how, but Chris had hands that made art.

“Chris!” He called. The man raised his gaze, showing his perfectly long eyelashes that framed his green eyes. He excused himself from the girls and went to Viktor.

“Viktor, how’s this beautiful day treating you? Did you notice it will snow soon?”

“Oh, yes, I’m very excited.”

“We’ll be able to skate with the kids. Maybe we can lend skates to the oldest.” He said with a smile.

“That’d be wonderful, but Chris…There’s something I want to talk about.”

“Is something wrong?” He asked in a worried tone.

Viktor told him everything he’d heard on the news: about the Japanese occupation in Korea becoming more violent. There were many people escaping to camps far away from the Imperial army, near the Chinese border.

Chris listened carefully. Viktor didn’t know why, but he felt he had to go. Not that he found it strange since it was something that always happened. If he heard about a place in conflict, Viktor went. Had to go. It was his duty to help.

Fortunately, his friend agreed to accompany Viktor.

“No problem, Viktor. From all the trains we have to take, with luck we’ll be there in a little over a month.

“It doesn’t matter. As long as we get there, early or late, it doesn’t matter.”

“The kids will miss us.”

“I’m sure we will too. But think about the people we could help in Korea. They’re surrounded by enemies. We can talk with an organization that can give us money, food and clothes. I heard that winter is very tough.”

Viktor’s gaze glowed. Many people wondered if his dedication was for personal satisfaction. Just looking at his face gave you an answer.

Viktor was in favor of everyone being happy in their own way, with what comes from inside and nothing made him happier than a child's smile after a hug, a plate of food or a doll; children who had lost everything, but still decided to give their love to Viktor.

To Viktor, the non-villain Soviet, as some called him.

  


* * * *

  
They were to set out in five days. Viktor couldn’t wait to get to Korea and give away a bit of his soul to anyone that needed and deserved it. 


End file.
